#no pretensions to him whatsoever

[weyounbathwater]

Yeah picard is boring but he's boring in one of the funniest ways possible. Yeah he doesn't do shit ever but then every like 5 episodes something happens to him like an otherdimensional being tries to seduce him by trapping him in a fantasy holosuite land and he adamantly denies that he's incapable of having fun ever while continuing to have no fun. or an alien woman will try to have sex with him and he will say with no pretense or irony whatsoever "my dick is boring leave me alone". someone tries to get him to go to a party or even talk to him but hes like no actually I need to read this 140 year old thesis on the lowering popularity of the word "perchance" in the english vocabulary. he only ever drinks the same drink. Like

Getting tired of this post so I'm putting quakke in it

In honor of 5,369 notes: more quakkes

[flower-cage]

To Serve

by @flower-cage Ao3 | Masterlist Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.

Words: 3,768

Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism. Minors, do not interact.

Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons. Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.

That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.

He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck. Always. 

It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.

“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.

This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.

That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.

“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”

Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.

“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”

Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.

And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.

In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.

That morning, he had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step past his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you in.

He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.

“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”

His promise stretched on for days on end.

You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.

Until you didn’t.

“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.

You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone. 

Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.

“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.

He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.

“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.

“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”

His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.

The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors which he pushes open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.

Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception. 

He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.

His body is that of a man, now: no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been merely bodily.

You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.

His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.

You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base and running your nose along the shaft, to then unbutton him quietly.

He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth this much.

You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.

He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.

Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.

“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening. 

The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.

“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.

And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure. 

You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.

Now, you are wide awake and it is you who tastes him eagerly. 

When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.

The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.

This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.

When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were a simple maid of the palace.

That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.

The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face. 

Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.

He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.

Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.

When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.

He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.

Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.

“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him. 

Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.

“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.

“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.

He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.

“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.

“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.

You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.

“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”

Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.

When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in your unlimited ecstasy.

The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.

Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.

You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.

Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.

Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.

It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience. 

And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.

A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.

You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.

“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.

His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.

But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips up and away from his cock, and thrusts.

You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.

Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.

“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”

Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.

Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.

He loves to debase you in this way.

He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.

But he can.

He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.

His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.

“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”

He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his calculated, powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.

“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.

“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”

He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.

“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.

He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.

His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.

His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.

“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.

His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.

Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.

“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.

“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”

He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”

“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.

“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.

You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council room. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you. 

You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.

Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.

And yet.

“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”

Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.

He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious. 

“I want you just like this,” he warns, taking your jaw in a firm grasp, “on your best behavior.”

He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.

#hotd fic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #aemond x you #aemond x servant reader #hotd smut #lol not me posting another one at 3am on a sunday #work is going to suck tomorrow i guess

[rthko]

Trans 101 is "being trans and drag are different," but you have GOT to reach 102 before you start telling the world that drag is definitionally cis men who enjoy being cis men dressed as women... Take for instance the "street queens" of the 20th century for whom trying to live and present as women almost definitionally meant they were unemployable outside of sex work and drag (lest you're one of the lucky few who medical gatekeepers approve of and can transition to become a housewife or a typist 😍). Or the people who discover they're trans through drag, which is not a hypothetical example but a type of person literally anyone who knows local or IRL drag is familiar with. And what are they supposed to do? Give up their passion and the support networks they found because "'drag is definitionally for cis men only' but in a trans affirming way?" Or in the case of queens who make no official pretense of being trans but have work done to look feminine in and out of drag, present feminine when they go out whether they have a gig that night or not, and nobody in their scene seems to address them by "he/him" or their assigned name... The way they self describe is their decision, but "cis" is a massive over-simplification, and if we're going by gender incongruence I can't believe there's none of that going on whatsoever. Drag scenes can absolutely be transphobic--look at RuPaul, et cetera. But, rewind, what's the main thing RuPaul is called out as transphobic for? A history of excluding trans contestants? The very trans performers we're supposed to claim don't exist and undermine for their hypothetical benefit? It just doesn't make sense. So of course the quotidian lives of trans people are different from and more real than drag fantasy. The 101 here is necessary. But if you never graduate past that, what you're stuck doing is reinforcing the myth that gay culture has no cross-contamination with transness whatsoever. And the main people who stand to gain from that myth are, well, gay transphobes.

[inconveniently-discorporated]

If the coffee theory doesn't quite sit right with you, but you're still super weirded out by how much emphasis they put on the order, I think I've figured out some symbolism that could be behind the order that would send a message AND has biblical ties.

We've got an oat milk latte (oats) with almond syrup.

In the Bible, Paul says: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” In other words, you reap what you sow.

What has Aziraphale been doing for the last few years? According to Crowley, dropping the pretense that they aren't a couple. Aziraphale touches Crowley, gazes openly at him, yanks him out to dance with him. That's not even to mention the fact that he was not hiding it very well before, and Heaven knows he's been a "traitor" for a long time.

In other words, to Heaven, he's been wildly irresponsible. He's been sowing his wild oats.

There's been some info floating around that almonds in the Bible mean purity -- there is also a story wherein the almond branch is a symbol that God is always watching. I think it's supposed to be a positive thing, but one could certainly see how that could be threatening.

Putting it together, the message is this: "We know what you've done and we see what you're doing. You think we haven't been watching? Guess again. We are always watching. God is always watching."

Whether Aziraphale knew that right away or not, I don't know. He didn't seem threatened by it. But it's possible that, if he had even a subconscious inkling of the symbolism of these two things, it could've influenced his behavior.

Or maybe it wasn't a message for him at all. Maybe it was a message for the audience. You think Heaven was really just going to go away and our ineffable heroes would just be happy? Hahaha. Think again. Heaven never went away. Heaven will never go away.

#good omens #gos2 spoilers #I'll be queueing this up on the murder board also #coffee theory #good omens meta

[itsonlydana]

hello! I see you have requests open...(?) for the hobbit/lotr, and I was wondering if I could request a modern!thranduil x reader fanfiction? the reader is some sort of barista/baker/other thing, and Thranduil is obviously all rich and shit and comes in once, is enamoured by shy, flustered reader and then becomes a regular? obviously, they end up together in the end. thank you!

Lattes and Love | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑

it's a rainy monday, perfect for a meet-cute with the new, handsome and rich customer that you totally don't embaress yourself in front of

tags/warnings: coffeeshop!au, fluff

word count: 2,7k

an: oh, this was such a good request! Thoroughly loved writing it :)

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

"Falling for customers strictly forbidden!" was the non-negotiable rule for anyone who found themselves working at the loveliest café in Laketown; 'Beans & Leafs'.

Despite being written out on a wooden board behind the counter and in the kitchen, this rule was obviously ignored by more than half of the employees; the others were either happily coupled up, had no interest in romance, or had such an unhealthy work-life balance that this didn't matter anyway.

You, on the other hand, a longtime single and die-hard lover of romance novels, were one of the employees who couldn't go a month without an over-the-counter crush, serving coffees and teas as well as heart eyes and shy blushes.

You had perfected your craft of pouring coffee while thinking of scenarios where, instead of getting a tip, the handsome brunette with the gentle smile would wait until the end of your shift and invite you out for not coffee, but a drink, perhaps.

These fantasies did no one any harm; you would even go as far as to debate that the love you pledged for the customers was an ingredient that fitted exquisitely into the crushed beans and steamed milk.

There had never been any complaints, so there was no reason whatsoever why your boss, Bard, flung his arm out and pointed at the sign when the doorbell chimed one rainy Monday morning.

The weather had been particularly awful the entire weekend, clouds hanging low and leaving you to barricade yourself into your apartment, and when you'd left the house this morning, paddling away on your bike and avoiding muddy puddles as well as you could, the skies were still gray and gloomy. Inside the café the warm lamps tried their best to fight against the pale sunlight that fell through rain-streaked windows, coloring everything in washed-out watercolors.

When you followed the length of Bard's hand however it was as if the sun broke through, even if it was only for the few seconds you stared at the man who just entered the shop and stepped into the small line of customers.

He was breathtakingly gorgeous, right up the alley of models you saw in fashion magazines with his sharp cheekbones and the pair of high-waisted jeans that hugged his waist perfectly. Even his long black coat seemed like it was tailored for his broad shoulders and he looked, by all means, expensive.

"Eyes, Darlin', eyes."

It was only when Bard gently nudged his hip against yours as he passed you from behind and tapped one finger against the sign again, that you bewilderedly realized that hadn't been a direction to the customer's eyes – oh boy, they were twinkling like starlight – but rather a command to advert yours.

"Stop bossing me around," you groaned quietly, glad for the jazz music that played from speakers over your head and the chatter of the few other customers that had found their way into the 'Beans & Leafs'.

"I am your boss. I have every right to command you 'round," Bard said, knocking his knuckles against the sign, "And a rule 's a rule. Doesn't matter if you're the best worker I've got 'round here."

You stuck your tongue out at him of the corner of your mouth under the pretense that it was nothing but concentration over the milk you were pouring into a cup for the customer in front of you.

"You're so annoying," you said as you turned your back on the counter to grab a new cup. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

The question was directed at Bard but it's not his warm voice that answers your teasingly snappy question, but a deeper one without the familiar drip of Bard's accent:

"Yes, actually, so I would appreciate my latte with three shots of espresso for takeaway please."

You immediately flew around, hot shame bubbling up straight into your cheeks as you squealed, "Oh shit– I mean, shit, sorry!"

Of course. Of course, the 6ft beauty was the next in line, casually resting one arm on the counter and scrutinizing you with those captivating bright eyes that, now that he stared at you and there wasn't anything between you except the bar and miles of shame, did look exactly like starlight. This was so unprofessional and it didn't help that you were frozen on the spot.

You heard Bard's rough laughter, saw him shaking his head in not-so-quiet disbelief out of your peripheral vision and it only fueled the blush that took over your whole face. "I'm so sorry," you apologized and lowered your chin to look away from the customer and down to the coffee machine instead.

Flaming red cheeks reflected in the silver metal greeted you as you let the machine take over for the espresso – arabica beans from Brasille, rich, sweet and slightly nutty, and, if brewed correctly, which you always managed, would leave a lingering taste reminiscent of dark chocolate. "Whole milk, oat, almond, or soy?" you asked, swallowing the lump of embarrassment that was lodged in your throat.

"Oat, please."

You nodded and fell into the rhythm that you were used to, that, despite the hope the ground would tear up and swallow you completly, comes like second nature. "I just want to let you know that I truly wasn't talking to you," you started and foamed up the milk, hiding behind the steam.

The customer huffed out an amused laugh. "No? You're only that cheeky to your employer?"

Great, now he thought you were an employee who didn't respect her higher-ups. "No no! It's a joke," you cringed at the nervous chuckle you laughed, "Nothing serious, just joking. He knows I would never disrespect him, he's a good boss, one of the best actually! And–" you heard your rambling and wanted to close your eyes at the next blink and never open them again, "– and I should probably stop talking now."

Bard passed you again, patting one hand fatherly on your shoulder though this helped barely because the slight touch immediately zipped straight through your spine. In what could only be described as unfortunate timing your arm flinched forward, breaking the carefully concentrated pouring of steamed milk into the paper cup, and to your horror you watched as the foam parted through the coffee.

And created the perfect heart.

You gave yourself a second to breathe, to stare down into the paper cup and this was totally fine; you made latte art all the time and most of your favorite customers got a heart one day or another. And even if you didn't know the man at all and already made a fool out of yourself, other coffee places did this as well.

It's just coffee.

But it was never just coffee with all the love you poured into it, wasn't it?

So you steeled yourself, ignored the churning of your stomach, and plastered on a flustered smile. "Here's your coffee, Sir." The heart cheekily smiled right back, foam bobbing on top and this was definitely a moment you would be thinking about, maybe even use as an opportunity to reevaluate the importance of Bard's stupid sign. "Cash or card?"

He already pulled out a sleek wallet, manicured nails and long fingers pushed a neat $20 over to you. He wore a smirk, the corners of his mouth turned so far up that white teeth showed and dimples buried themselves into his cheeks. "Cash. I suspect the tips go straight to–" one finger lifted and pointed straight forward, "you?"

"Me," you repeated and quickly shook your head, "I mean yes, they go to me."

"Good," he chuckled, "wouldn't want anyone else to share what you earned rightfully, don't we? Keep the change."

"But Sir!" you protested because this tip was ludicrously big for a latte; more than double the amount of what he had paid for the drink on its own without the free show of you being a complete fool.

The man arched an eyebrow though it carried nothing but curiosity instead of the superiority that it would communicate by an older, more stuffy guy.

You busied your hands, cleaned the frother, and emptied the remaining ground coffee into the trash before you ran a rag over the machine, or otherwise, the probability of ruining your nailbeds was much too high. "The coffee's maybe not to your liking – what if you absolutely hate it?"

"Then I will simply order another one another time," he replied and the hope that sprung up inside your chest, another time– another visit, he would come back– bounced around your ribcage and threatened to burst right through.

Your throat clicked as you swallowed, looking up from the dark brown coffee that filled the next mug, coffee black, arabica beans imported from Peru, fruity and perfect for the cappuccino order, up to the man, this stunning beautiful man who tipped like he could throw away money and not notice the amount missing, the epitome of all what you've dreamed about and exceeding those standards the longer he stood around.

You grabbed the opportunity, damned the sign because why the hell should anyone be forbidden to fall in love with him and bit down on your lower lip, smiling softy.

"Could I get your name?"

"I already have my coffee," he said amused and the heat was back in your cheeks. "But it's Thranduil. Nice to meet you," Thranduil's starlight eyes dropped to the name-pin buttoned to your apron and flittered back up, warm and deep voice wrapping around your name in a manner that was close to too overwhelming. "Now, let's try this drink, shall we?"

Completely entranced by his soft-looking lips that twitched back into a smile at the sight of the heart, eyes locking on yours again as he lifted the cup, you watched him take a sip.

A soft hum.

Long lashes fluttering shut against the apple of his cheek.

Yep, there was no way back from this. By the end of your shift, you would probably bike home and dream about this moment, when Thranduil opened his eyes again and you were still staring, caught despite the line forming behind him, other customers held up by Bard, this wonderful man you would never ask anything of him ever again, and Thranduil competed in the new game of who would look away first.

"Sweet," his voice was still deep, coated by a warmness that only satisfactory coffee would bring, and you swore you tasted the chocolate on your tongue as you bit down on it.

The way your eyes scanned the work area to check if you had accidentally poured sugar into his coffee, he didn't order any, right? – and while the oak milk carried some sweetness with it, it wasn't much but what if– were a clear message of slight panic, nervousness of having gotten his order wrong and Thranduil quickly deescalated the deep frown forming in your eyebrows.

"Ah, don't worry. I wasn't talking about the coffee," Thranduil said, and, lifting the cup to his lips, he winked at you over the rim.

He left you like that, mouth hanging slightly open while your mind ran the calculation of whether or not he had flirted with you.

You spent the rest of the day in a haze, only managing the midday and afternoon rush with the memory of Thranduil whom you swore, you saw rushing past the window of the shop in the evening, long hair flying in the wind at his quick steps and if your mind didn't play tricks on you, his head turned when he passed you, eyes finding yours in a second that quietened down all the sounds.

The next day, he came in again, a phone pressed to his ear and an apologetic voiceless: "So sorry," when the call was seemingly important enough for him to take his latte, foam-heart included, and dashed back outside, leaving you another hefty tip but no further interaction.

You sighed.

For good measure, you even glared at the sign.

Thranduil stopped by on his way to work every morning from Monday, Thursday and Friday, ordering his latte until it waited for him at exactly 7:45, the heart inside the coffee wandering onto the takeaway cup when you started scribbling his name onto it, first on the dot of the 'i' and then, later, when you were brave enough, next to the name.

It was a hurdle, more than often you had the sharpie pressed into the paper, blacking out from sheer panic that seeped through you like the dark ink that ended up either a smiley or a flower or full stop.

Thranduil would come in, sweep you off your feet by simply smiling or smirking at the new doodle on his coffee, steaming hot as soon as the bell announced his arrival, and leave. Never without tipping you enough for you to buy a new bike at the end of the first month of him visiting the 'Beans & Leafs'.

On Saturdays, Thranduil came in and settled his tall body into one of the window tables, entirely oblivious to all the ogling he got from passersby as well as customers, they stared all the same at his beauty and the weekend always got better because his sole focus was on you.

On Saturdays, he got his coffee, a Cappuccino served in dark blue mugs that complimented his white-blond hair and the rosé of his lips that savored every last drop, and he started asking you for your opinions on the breakfast options.

The first time he did it, long legs crossed over each other and his head propped up on his hands listening intently, you rambled on the entirety of the menu, babbling on and on and on:

"We got wonderful apple rose tarts, that truly look like roses, and rhubarb pie or a lemon shortcake – that one goes perfectly with the chocolaty taste of the coffee beans! And we have croissants, banana bread, and a cheese Danish!"

"Mhmm, all of those sound ama–" Thranduil started but was interrupted by your nervous continuing chatter:

"And of course, you could have a chicken and avocado sandwich, if you want something more savory. Or our chefs make a mean bacon and egg one with arugula and a blueberry vinaigrette?" you asked and threw a quick look to Thranduil who hid his amused smile that lit up his whole face behind his fingers. "Oh, or are you a vegetarian? Then I would recommend the olive, tomato and hummus bagel, but maybe you don't like olives. For that, we have a walnut quiche–"

"Yes, I am vegetarian–"

The smile bloomed past the, noticeably large, hands, the corner of his mouth curling up while his eyebrows furrowed in the concentration of keeping still, watching you in awe as your breath held on far longer than his ability to remain calm and it was only a matter of time until you were done.

Your eyes landed on the dimples, the soft crow feet next to his eyes, and low on oxygen you finally managed to detangle yourself from the menu that you had previously, in preparation for this moment, had carefully written down on your notesblock, the page now crinkled at the edges and most of the ink smeared under the hard press of your thumbs.

"Great! Do you want me to repeat the vegetarian options?"

Thranduil ordered all of your recommendations.

Not all at once, it wasn't past you to bring out dozens of plates at his request but Thranduil kept to two cups of coffee and worked his way through the display of cakes, pies, breads, rolls and sandwiches, always prepared by you.

You served him his first coffee with a heart in his mug and a plate for him to eat and after rushing through the next hour, eyes locking across the room now and again whenever you looked up from the coffee machine and he from his plate, you would bring him his second cup, carrying the heart-coffee and another one for you to sip on during your break, legs brushing against each other under the small table.

It was there, at this table, that Thranduil asked you out, not two months after the first interaction.

It was also at this table that he kissed you for the first time, tasting like love, lattes and a bit of chocolate.

©itsonlydana 2024, character art by MiracleAna on Devianart

#📁files: thranduil fanfics #thranduil x reader #thranduil oropherion #thranduil fanfiction #king thranduil #thranduil x you #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit fanfiction

[rochenn]

really intrigued the theoretical possibilities of "gay sit" but too rabid over your dooku not to ask about "dooku x2"

YESSS thank you!!

that's the file name of a fic called "matters of consequence" in which dooku, sometime after qui-gon's knighting, time travels forward into the clone wars, meaning that he now exists in a reality where can look his old corrupted self in the eye and also be absolutely crushed by the things he will do/has already done.

he also gets to hang out with his lineage and crawl through trenches. good times all around!

snippet of the opening chapter under the cut ->

———

Feeling lost was a curious thing.

It wasn't a state of being Dooku had often been confronted with in his forty-odd years of life. Ire, pride, ambition: those were feelings he could process, coming to him as easily as they were dismissed again.

The clink of crude pottery—a clay cup he had known since childhood—mixed with the rattle of high-security handcuffs. The cup's contents warmed his palms, the hassock beneath him soft just like his memory of it. The cuffs, however, weighed heavier than they looked. He pretended they didn't chafe his pride more than his wrists when he drank from the cup, in part to find comfort in a familiar taste, but mostly to hide. Control eluded him.

"I recall, Master," he finally managed, "one of the first things you taught me being that it is rude to stare." His voice came out terse, and it was justified. He glared pointedly into the empty space between Yoda and Mace who had both been silently regarding him for minutes that stretched like hours. He didn't care to admit how much it unnerved him.

"You didn't resist." Mace made no pretense of acknowledging his words. "Why?"

Dooku swallowed a grimace and took another sip, unable to savor the tea's candid sweetness as the Force stretched taut and wary through the room. Light fell past half-shut blinds and painted glowing bars onto the walls, as though sun itself were inclined towards horrible metaphors. This, he was certain, was an interrogation.

"Why?" Indignation, too, came to him easily. "Why is it that when I walk these halls, you pull me away," like he wasn't supposed to be there, "you practically arrest me," like some sort of criminal, and he let the cuffs rattle for emphasis, "and subsequently lock me in this chamber for no apparent reason whatsoever?"

This was all a dream, he figured. It had to be. Mace and Yoda had aged by decades. The Force's river ran polluted and vile here, nearly unrecognizable.

"Again," Mace said, and his old face was hewn from stone, "are you aware of who you are?"

"I have answered this question more than once. I cannot fathom why you should ask at all."

A wisp of Yoda's misty aura brushed against his own and Dooku had to keep himself from reaching for it. Instead, he telegraphed his displeasure through their mangled bond. If his old Master wanted to reassure him, he could well enough open his mouth to do so.

#this one is so fun but also hurting my brain a little bit #my writing #wip #count dooku #ask

[thatbadadvice]

Help! The Woman I Have Been Stalking for Years Is Disinclined to Engage With Me

Carolyn Hax, WaPo, 1 June 2023 (originally 11 March 2009):

Dear Carolyn: About five years ago, I began to realize that a woman I dated 25 years earlier was someone I had stronger feelings for than I was mature enough to appreciate at the time. I had questions for her about why we hadn’t blossomed into the kind of relationship I now think we both believe we were destined for. In the past five years, I’ve continued to have those questions, then dreams, etc., which led me to do a paid search for her address. I wrote her twice and left a voice mail. My messages have been about old friends I bumped into who reminded me of her, what I’ve been doing and how I’d like to hear from her. That is, nothing too serious or about what’s been on my mind. I haven’t received an answer. I’ve thought through the reasons she hasn’t corresponded, and why I needed to talk with her, and am still at a loss. Would asking her my questions directly in a letter be a way to coax her to reconnect? Telling her that, apart from this midlife crisis of mine, I’m happily married and successful, and that all I want are answers? -- A 30-year-old question

Dear 30-Year-Old Question,

One might expect a happily married person to do all kinds of things, but topmost among them is paying to find the contact information of an ex-girlfriend and sending said ex-girlfriend multiple unanswered messages, repeatedly and through a variety of means, over the course of many years in the hopes of deceiving her into heady conversations about the details of your long-ended relationship. Yes indeed, when the Bad Advisor thinks of "normal stuff a person who's very happy in their marriage would do," her mind immediately goes to "pretending to ask innocuous questions about old friends in the hope that a woman I dated 30 years ago believes I am solely and only asking her innocent questions about old friends, when in fact I am explicitly and admittedly not."

Women are famously unable to clock the intentions of men, who are very clever, extremely stealthy, and never creepy or dangerous to the extent that they would unsettle people from whom they have demanded interaction and who have time and time again ignored them. Probably this woman received your incredibly blasé letters and voicemail and thought: "Gosh, it seems like this dude who deuced out on me three decades ago is trying to rope me into responding to him multiple times despite my obvious disinclination to engage only and exclusively on the subject of our old friends, what a boring conversation, I shan't respond unless he sends me a lengthy bit of written correspondence detailing his many thoughts and feelings about how our romance ended, I simply can't imagine having a conversation with him unless I know for absolute certain he wants to rehash what happened between us, which is the only possible way I could fathom entertaining such a reconnection, one which I would never have reason to pursue otherwise, as I am so desperately in love with him and have been lo these 30 years but could not in good conscience find a way to broach the subject unless he sends me just one more letter finally making his bonerful intentions plain, that sly dog."

Might you have neglected to include a return address on the previous correspondence about which you were extremely desperate, but in a very casual way, to receive a response? Does your ex-girlfriend own the only cellular telephone on earth that does not log the return-call number of people who leave voicemails? Mayhap she simply does not know how to contact you after multiple attempts over half a decade! These are highly probable reasons she has not sought you out! Vastly more likely than the fact that she sees entirely the fuck through your pretenses and wants nothing to do with you whatsoever.

If you wish to receive a concrete answer about the status of your relationships, your best hope is to CC your spouse on any future correspondence. I think you can expect a prompt response.

#advice #bad advice #carolyn hax #washington post #mid-life crisis #happily married #the gift of fear #just asking questions #sea lion #m'lady #stalking #just regular stuff happily married dudes do #absolutely normal shit

[astrum-aetherium]

just wanna fuck Henry while he's working 😩

oh, absolutely.

it could start out as a harmless study date — sitting across from one another with various books cracked open in front of you, respectively, pens gliding upon paper; pure unassuming academic dedication. until something within you shifts. maybe it’s his consternated, drawn expression, or the way he lets the cigarette idle between his fingers, barely rolling it back and forth, when he ponders over a more suitable translation. his veiled frustration when he needs to consult textbooks and dictionaries, almost undetectable but nevertheless discernible through heavy, deep breaths. there’s only this much you can take.

at first, you tease. you unbutton your blouse with a faux-naïve pretense (“sweltering, isn’t it?”) or roll up your sleeves extra tardily to make sure he notices. he certainly does, but his self-control allows him to redirect his utmost attention back to his studies. unfortunately, the same cannot be said for you. by now, your thoughts have shifted someplace vastly different from latin, or ancient greek, or language itself in general.

you’re restless. you yield to the temptation — much to his concealed, yet utter delight — and get up, stirring ever closer to where he is seated. almost theatrically, he pays your proximity no mind whatsoever; it is only when you wrap your hands around his shoulders that he acknowledges your presence, yet only with a mere hum. without the need for an invitation, you plant yourself into his lap, to which he does not object in the slightest, though remaining focused on his task. starved and intent on toying with his nonchalant self, you wriggle about in your seat — his bodily reaction isn’t long in coming.

still, he keeps his absolute cool. “you seem to be in evident need of something.”

“isn’t it obvious?”

“i suppose it’s quite noticeable that i am busy at the moment, utterly so. thus, i suggest you take what it is you need on your merry own. mmh?”

he’s feigning being distracted so perfectly it almost convinces you, but the way he sharply draws breath and flinches when you pull him out and carefully guide him inside you prompt you otherwise. you stay put, then, for a handful of minutes — letting the stretch of him warm you from within. you only move when it seems as though he’s forgotten he’s inside you in the first place, and even then, you take your sweet time; you glide so slowly his fingers twitch and his handwriting slants over strangely. he endures the torture for a few prolonged moments, breath hitching every now and again, until it ails him to resist you any further — he grabs agitated hold of your hips and drives you into himself, so harshly you yelp. soon enough, most study materials are hastily swept off the table and replaced with your frame, which he fucks into so expertly you practically deify yourself for having initiated this in the first place.

and that’s the precise reason you don’t schedule as many study dates anymore — it seems that whenever you do, you’re much less productive than, say, with anyone else.

#henry winter smut #henry winter x reader #henry winter imagine #henry winter thirst #indulgent thoughts #astrum asks #god the way this prompt made me want to SCREAM

[batmannotes]

McFarlane Toys DC Retro (The New Adventures of Batman)

6 inch Action Figures

McFarlane Toys announces the upcoming release of DC Retro: The New Adventures of Batman 6" Figures.

Incredibly detailed 6" scale retro style figure based on the THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN.

Designed with articulation with up to 12 moving parts for retro play.

Collect all McFARLANE TOYS THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN figures.

A playboy billionaire by day, Bruce Wayne's double life affords him the comfort of a life without financial worry, a loyal butler-turned-guardian and the perfect base of operations in the ancient network of caves beneath his family's sprawling estate. By night, however, he sheds all pretense, dons his iconic scalloped cape and pointed cowl and takes to the shadowy streets, skies and rooftops of Gotham City.

Incredibly detailed 6" scale retro style figure based on the THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN.

Designed with articulation with up to 12 moving parts for retro play.

Accessories include Batarang and Bat-cuffs.

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Acrobat Dick Grayson was the youngest member of his parents' death-defying circus act. But after their cold-blooded murder, Dick vowed revenge. Seeing a genuine piece of himself in the boy, Batman took him in, and gave him a better outlet for his anger. Becoming Batman's protege, Robin is an expert fighter and astounding acrobat, with the toughest example in the world to live up to. But the Boy Wonder's true strength may lie in not being Batman, and providing a beacon of hope and family throughout the Dark Knight's grim crusade.

Incredibly detailed 6" scale retro style figure based on the THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN.

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Not all heroes in Gotham City wear masks. GCPD Commissioner James Gordon is the Dark Knight's greatest ally, and one of his closest friends. 

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The mean streets of Gotham City have a number of guardian angels watching over them. And one of the first, the young woman who turned the Dynamic Duo into the Batman family, was Batgirl. Barbara Gordon has always existed between two worlds: her life at home as the only daughter of Police Commissioner James Gordon and her life swinging from gargoyles as an associate of the Dark Knight. 

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No name strikes terror into the hearts of Gotham City's citizens quite like the Joker. In a city overrun with larger-than-life criminals, the always-laughing villain stands alone. A complete psychopath with no moral compass whatsoever, the Joker, whose real name and identity remain completely unknown, is characterized by his chalk-white skin, green hair and a permanent rictus grin stretched across his face. But there isn't a single thing funny about this particular clown, who only finds humor in the suffering of others. 

Incredibly detailed 6" scale retro style figure based on the THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN.

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Includes newspaper accessory.

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Possessing a genius-level intellect, the Riddler creates elaborate, sometimes Rube Goldberg-esque traps, and is even willing to use innocent civilians as bait. Although not physically imposing, the Riddler's brilliance, neurosis and lack of empathy make him an incredibly dangerous foe. He cares very little, if at all, about the lives of those he uses in his plots and instead only sees them as disposable pawns in his continuing intellectual battle against Batman.

Incredibly detailed 6" scale retro style figure based on the THE NEW ADVENTURES OF BATMAN.

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Includes Riddler's question mark cane accessory.

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Preorder now at Amazon.

#batman #action figure #news #notes

[merakiui]

aaaa brain rotting abt the jade fwb situ....wondering how Floyd would react if he ever found out.

I'm stuck between the possibility of him either 1. Getting extremely upset from the fact that his shrimpy would really rather fuck his brother when he's rightt there :/ (which in general the aspect of how Floyd would react to cheating I feel can be pretty obvious to guess but when it's his own brother involved I truly wonder who's side he would take in the situation. Pretense; jade being like- "Floyd will literally kill you if he finds out about this :)" because after all who's side would he take when the truths revealed? Jade def uses that as an extra plus to manipulate you I'm sure ;;

But anyways, 2. Floyd is open to sharing with jade- but in a way that truly makes reader suffer,, after all its still cheating! I can imagine the tweels taking turns impersonating each other just to mess with reader's head who, unbeknownst to them and is pitifully unaware that Floyd has long since known about their relations with jade- but wants to scare reader one day while it's assumed reader is messing with jade as per usual but a (purposeful) slip up from jade Floyd strikes the reader with dread that they've fucked up D:

Omg yes!!! What's especially fun about the line between Floyd and Jade is that it's entirely possible for one of them to end up wanting what the other has. Floyd could have no interest in you whatsoever, but if he finds out you're sleeping with Jade in secret? Suddenly he just has to have you because Jade has you and it's not fair if Jade has something Floyd doesn't! >:( it's essentially the same vice-versa. If you're in a fwb situation with Floyd and Jade finds out, he's naturally going to be very curious and if he stalks observes you enough he might find himself falling for you.

But then there's also that sibling urge to just,,,, sabotage regardless of opinions or feelings. It's like how Floyd essentially tattled to Eliza on Jade during Ghost Marriage (about how the flower he'd given her was a poisonous species) solely because he couldn't stand the idea of Jade winning when he failed and was stuck frozen LOL. It's so petty. I imagine both brothers can be like this towards each other when you're involved and they're both vying for your heart or one of them is and the other has no interest.

And the idea of them impersonating the other just to mess with you... I love it a lot. <3 the twins can do very good impressions of the other, so you might be entirely fooled if you aren't scrutinizing too closely. They live for the way your face falls when you slowly start to realize they've tricked you all along. If Floyd really wanted to, he could probably muster the patience to play Jade for a while, but he's so capricious sometimes. Conversely, Jade could do it all day. If it's a game where he knows something good will come out of playing a long waiting game, he'll gladly put in the effort.

#twisted chit chat

[coweye]

Commitment Issues - Part 8

Pairing: Benjamin Miller x Reader

Words: 2.7k

Summary: When you try and take your friends with benefits relationship to the next level, Benny’s response isn’t quite what you were expecting.

AN: So I lied - I'm so sorry for the wait! Recently, writing hasn't come as easy to me and although it's almost a year late I hope you enjoy, this isn't the final chapter - I lied twice.

➢ fic masterpost

PREVIOUS PART

28th April 2022 - 37 weeks pregnant

Life playing host to the parasite that was soon to be your daughter had only gotten worse. Hard to believe, I know.

The gift that kept on giving made sure that you’d suddenly without any warning whatsoever have the overwhelming urge to vomit. 

There was no rhyme or reason to her neat new little party trick but at any given moment your stomach said nope and you bought up whatever you happened to have eaten or as the case may be; be eating at the time. 

Honestly, you weren’t a negative person by nature, but these agonizing eight months had taken it out of you. 

Hell, you were in the process of drafting an eviction notice if this kid didn’t get out of you in the next two weeks. 

Long story short, between this and the Benny situation you were not exactly the best of company, right now. 

The boys and Val had all learnt this early on and for the past eight days, you had given up all pretense of a brave face, now you were bleeding and letting everyone who would listen know about it.

When Santiago, who had decided to stay in town until the birth of your baby, suggested a stroll around the mall, you had fixed him with the stare that would have had a lesser man running back to Colombia with his tail between his legs. Until, of course, he had sweetened the deal with fried chicken, his treat and coincidentally the only meal that you had yet to regurgitate. 

So, here you found yourself with Santiago and William and a six piece bucket to yourself.

The change in company was a welcome distraction from dwelling on your non-existent love life at home with the love of your life. 

After the thorn in your side that was Jasmine, reared her ugly head at the baby shower, you had pulled back into your protective bubble of distant and cold. 

Benny, though confused about the message, received it loud and clear as he returned to the swing to find you inside and talking incredibly heatedly to Valerie. In the eight days that followed, he yet to confront you about it. Apparently old habits died hard.. 

The camaraderie that had come hand in hand with your truce had dissolved. You weren’t actively unpleasant, but you didn’t melt into his side, or nap on the couch with him anymore. 

You had established boundaries, resolving yourself to the simple philosophy of anything you wouldn’t do with Frankie, you wouldn’t do with Ben. 

It was simple… well kind of, every one of your moves was carefully calculated and exhausting.

For example, lying on the couch watching a movie with a leg rub? Acceptable. 

Frankie would do that for your swollen ankle joint, hell, he had done.

However, lying on the couch with his body sandwiched against yours as you fall asleep, the hardness of him pressed into your backside; well… that was quite clearly a no, but I digress! 

Boundaries were established and what almost was, had been completely and totally healthily avoided at all costs, creating the exact tenuous home environment you'd spent so long trying to avoid. 

So, here you found yourself in the food court, slamming some fried chicken trying desperately to forget your woes.

“She’s too clingy…” Santi huffed in between a bite of his burger, talking mostly to Will as you had yet to peak up from behind your bucket. 

“Maybe she just likes you and wants to spend time with you, god forbid someone shows interest.” You grunted irritably between bites, looking for a fight. 

Both men turned to you in surprise, the whites of their eyes visible as they feared your outburst. 

Santiago strategically paused as he searched for the right words before he began to speak again. 

“You’re right … Maybe I’m too harsh.” Pope placated as he fixed you with a look of reproach, however, that only served to enrage you further. 

He watched for your reaction as if you were an angry bear or a child throwing a tantrum. Truth be told, you weren’t strictly unlike either of those things at that precise moment. 

Your brows narrowed, ready to unload and tell him all the reasons he was a dick before a cramping pain in your bloated abdomen overwhelmed you. Your eyes clenched shut as you breathed heavily through your nose, your ringed fingers gripped at the circular table in pain. 

It was impossible for you to judge how long went by before the pain finally passed. 

You took a further second or two to even your breathing before you resumed eating, succinctly dropping the subject that had injected fire into your veins merely moments before. 

With a fry in your mouth, you glanced up to find both men watching you. 

“What the fuck?”

“Are you okay?” They questioned in unison. 

A moment passed as you swallowed your mouthful before you concisely answered your comrades. “I’m pretty sure I’m going into labor.” 

“And … you don’t think we should be actively doing something about that?” Santiago pressed, looking as if he was ready to bolt.

“Labor can take hours and I won't be able to eat once it gets going…” You shrug, picking up another piece of chicken. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Pope breathed, eyes wide before he palmed in his eye sockets in frustration, attempting to rub the stress you induced away.

Will had dragged his chair to your side, his eyes focused on his watch.

“Don’t worry so much… the book said until they're ten minutes apart … there’s no point going …  to the hospital!” You explain in between bites of greasy chicken. 

Your words do little to quell their panic as both men look as if they're ready to pull their hair out with worry. 

“I’ll ring Ben.” Santi groaned as he stood up and reached into his jacket pocket before fishing out his phone. He turned dramatically with a finger pointed in your general direction. “You get her to hurry up - I swear to god, Y/N. If you’re eating when I get back, pregnant or not, I’ll drag you to that car. You’re not having your baby in the damn food court… estúpida, obstinada…” The man continued grunting curses at your expenses as he stalked off for somewhere quiet with cell reception to call the father of your child.

The silence that extended all of three minutes was too good to be true as Will watched your face as you ate for any sign of distress. 

“Whilst giving Pope a coronary is always a good time… don’t you think we should go and get your bag and meet Ben?” Will’s voice was soft, the kind of soothing tone you’d seen him use to talk down shell shocked soldiers - it was both unassuming and laced with copious amounts of compassion. 

You’d be damned if it didn’t just piss you right off. 

With a quick shake of your head, you dropped the empty bone into the bucket with the rest of the carcasses and took a long sip of your drink. 

“I’m good here … I can meet you guys there if you like?”

The pinch in his brow was quite simply incredulous, his concern was quickly outweighing his patience. 

“If you think I’m leaving you both here, you’re insane.”

Chewing on the straw of your drink; your eyes locked with his. They were brimming with a concoction of confusion and concern, which if the clench in his jaw was anything to go by, was slowly morphing into exasperation at your lack of compliance. 

“I … just need some time.”

“Y/N. All you’ve spoken about for the past week is how you want this to be over, wish granted - she’s coming and she’s coming now.”

“That’s what he said…” You uttered half-heartedly under your breath as you broke eye contact, no longer able to face his look of bewilderment. 

On the red tray in front of you was a lemon scented wet wipe hidden among napkins and sauces, you tore open the former and gratuitously began scrubbing the grease off of your hands, actively ignoring the perplexed stare of one of your closest friends. 

“Y/N, we need to get moving… will you just stop and listen?” Will snapped finally as he grabbed the wipe from your grip as you passed over your digits for the third time. 

Your own patience had reached its end as his hand gripped your elbow, his intention to make good on Santiago’s threat and drag you out, clear and present in your mind.

The devil in question was making his way back to your table, all quick strides as he dodged the food courts clientele.

You wrenched your arm from his grip huffing in annoyance at the well meaning Miller. 

“Fine. Let's go and get my bag, maybe we can grab an iced tea on the way to the car…”

Will nodded but you knew the mother hen would never allow a diversion from the mission at hand. 

All was going well. 

You were compliant as you strode through the mall, both men flanking you like a high priority asset as you clambered into Santi’s rental truck.

Hell, you were goddamn amenable as you unlocked your front door and grabbed the hospital duffel bag from the cubby under the stairs. 

However, your cooperation waned somewhat when heading to the maternity ward as  the guys tried to wheel your chair past the hospital's Starbucks. 

Your palm, lightening fast, caught the break on the chair causing it to veer left right into Santiago’s shins.

“Ice Tea!”

“You’ve got a baby about to shoot out of your hoo-hah and you're stopping for tea?!” Santi huffed incredulously as he rubbed his shin.

“My contractions are 25 minutes apart, when they’re 15, I’ll consider joining the panicking cry baby club.” 

“Panicking baby- huh!” Santi huffed rubbing his forehead. “You are not well, Y/N/N! You’re having a baby - Go and have it and then I’ll bathe you in fucking tea!” 

“I’ll come back down and grab you one-” Will placated before Santi bent to remove the break on the chair, allowing Will to move all of two steps, before you slammed it back on, the rubber tyres screeched against the tile floor of the hospital lobby. 

“Tea. First.” You huffed much like a troublesome child. 

This time it was Will who leaned down to remove the break, having clearly decided you weren’t in your right mind.

So, you did the only thing you could; you threw your baby bag off of your lap. 

“Y/N, stop being a goddamn child!” Will huffed, you had clearly pushed him to the edge, not that it had been particularly hard. 

Ignoring him, you began to stand. They both watched on in horror as you slowly ambled your way to the end of the queue. 

Leaning against the drinks fridge, you sighed. 

Your spine was aching something awful. The poor timing of this kid resumed as a contraction wracked your body, sharper than the others, it felt longer but you had no way to be sure. 

Will was at your side the second it overcame your body.

“Twenty minutes apart, please, Y/N. Come on.”

When finally the pain dissipated, your aching back remained. You weren’t proud of the weight you were placing on Will but the floor was the only other option. 

“y/n?! … Y/N!” You heard Benny hollar before you saw him, his eyes were wild with panic as he rushed to your side. He patted his brother on the shoulder, before taking his place. “Baby, what are you doing? You need to get into bed.”

“I want… my … tea.” You huffed, breathing not yet evening out. 

“Fine, we get the tea and we go straight up. How far apart are they?”

“Twen-”

The gush of amniotic fluid leaving your body cut the older Miller off, soaking through your jeans and unfortunately onto Benny’s shoes.

“You just pissed, she just pissed!” Santi cried in disbelief, his hands an almost permanent fixture in his disheveled curls at this point. It was hard to believe this man was a pressure player.

“It's not piss, it's her waters. We need to go, I’m sorry baby, you can have all the ice tea you want when it's safe for you both.” He bent down and caught your sodden legs, picking you up in one sweep. 

If you weren’t currently covered in amniotic fluid, that story book firefighter carry would have set your loins ablaze. 

Who were you kidding? 

You were absolutely drenched in amniotic fluid and your loins were practically smoking. 

Between writhing in pain as your uterus contracted to eject a literal watermelon and lusting over your baby daddy who you had spent the last eight days practically snarling at every time he dared advance, the journey to your delivery suite had been all but a blur. 

Somehow all three men surrounded you, having coerced their way through the midwifery staff with their nefarious charm. 

“How ya’ doing champ?” Santi questioned as you huffed on the oxygen inhaler handed to you by your midwife. A thumbs up was all you could offer as you groaned through the contractions that were now give or take five minutes apart. 

“How about we use a bit of gravity?” The woman in control of the drugs questioned. A suggestion you were only more than happy to try.

Following her instructions and with minor assistance from Ben you were now on all fours, frantically inhaling the gas and air. 

“We’re going to need to clear the room, anyone who isn’t the father needs to leave.” 

You were so far gone, you didn’t care if they saw the business end of your cervix. All you knew was uncontrollable pain that wracked your body every five minutes like a sadistic egg timer. 

Ben wiped at your forehead with a damp towel as tears escaped. 

“You can do this, baby.”

“UGNGH.. It feels like I’m shitting a knife!” You cried as another contraction wracked your body. 

“Not long now, gorgeous. Then we’ll have our baby.”

“I’m not ready.” You cried burying your face in the reclined back of the bed. You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“You are-”

“No. We’re not ready. Things were … supposed to be fixed… I promised her.”

“Wha-”

“ you stupid fucking idiot. I want to be with you; I have done for like ten years…  smitten with you from the second I heard your tone deaf ass singing that … crappy hick song on base. Ungh… And everything is so broken because I don’t want you … to just stay for the Bean, I want to be with you … because you want to be with me.” You cried, tears wracking your body as uncontrollably as the contractions.

“It’s all broken… I promised her and I fucked it all up. You … and Jaz can just live happily ever-” You cut yourself off with a low wail as another contraction wracked your body. It seemed to knock Benny out of his stupor as his hand rubbed your lower back.

It was a moment before you leveled out and remembered you were divulging your innermost thoughts but a moment ago, though you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

Bigger fish to fry, and all that.

“I adore you, even if you are the goddamn most stubborn fuckin’ idiot I’ve ever met. You're the mother of my baby, yeah. It scares the crap outta me. Caring for you. Damn near spent three months thinking up all the reasons we couldn’t be together cause it scared me so bad.” He huffed, stroking your hair. He helped you reposition on your back, as you breathed in another wave of oxygen. “I- I don’t do this. I don’t do relationships … because this feeling in my stomach when I think of you is fuckin awful. Sure I get the tingles when you smile at me or stroke my arm. But ninety-nine percent of the time, fucking nightmare, I worry if you’re happy, if you’ve eaten and now we’re adding an whole ass entire other person into this fucking clown show.”

“Gee… thanks.” You huffed in between breaths of gas and air. 

Ben chuckled as he pushed the sweat sodden hair back from your brow. He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours, the kiss was brief and nowhere near what was needed but it was all you could manage. 

It was enough, you thought at that moment.

The promise, that everything wasn’t lost, there was hope ahead, it carried you through.

Next Part

@sixshooter665 @queenie-b- @rambling-in-purple @anaaaispunk @miraclesabound @kravitzwhorehore @ahsokathearcher @xoxabs88xox @heresathreebee @psychadelichue @marauderskeeper @tanzthompsonn @mermaidxatxheart

#benny miller fic #benny miller x female reader #benny miller x y/n #benny miller x reader #ben miller x reader #garret hedlund #triple frontier fic #triple froniter #Benny Miller #Benjamin Miller #Ben Miller #triple frontier #triple frontier au #william ironhead miller #francisco catfish morales #santiago garcia #benjamin miller #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam #garrett hedlund #pedro pascal #triple frontier fanfiction #Commitment Issues

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

thinking about how much sumire's wish says about both her and maruki's reality. how even once maruki has the power to do it he doesn't bring back kasumi. sumire doesn't want her sister back, she wants to be her sister. sumire doesn't just hate herself--she's jealous of kasumi. she resents her for being the perfect elder sister when sumire consistently failed at being the perfect younger sister. sumire idealizes and hates kasumi all at once. the only way she can be happy is if she becomes her. if kasumi simply came back to life sumire wouldn't be happy, because that would return her to the self loathing hell sumire nearly killed herself to escape. maruki can't bring kasumi back if he wants sumire to be happy, even if bringing her back would create a more just world. maruki's priorities are always for the people already alive. akechi isn't brought back because he wants to live--far from it. he's brought back purely because that's what joker wants. same for wakaba and okumura--they aren't given any agency whatsoever in maruki's reality. their existences are wholly for the phantom thieves. notice again how yusuke's mother isn't brought back--madarame is simply a good sensei. maruki isn't doing what is the "right" or "just" thing by reversing death. he's picking and choosing whose wishes to fulfill and how according to their whims.

but the thing is, maruki only pretends to respect the wishes of the people in his reality. he wants there to be a pretense of choosing, hence why he's so desperate to get joker to agree to his reality, but the truth is that maruki's will always prevails regardless of whether anyone else is okay with it. if its what he decides is best he will override the will of his victims, as seen in his palace when he forces people to give up their dreams for another if he thinks it is what will make them happy. maruki is capable of changing sumire's cognition so that she'll be happy with a living kasumi, but he chooses not to, because his goal isn't to erase every injustice in the world. it is to make everyone happy in the way he deems necessary whether they like it or not. he doesn't care if akechi would rather be dead than his puppet. he only cares if joker, the boy he's personally grown attached to as someone who helped him with his research, got his wish. he doesn't care if kasumi is still doomed to a tragic early death so long as sumire, the living girl he's personally grown attached to as his patient, is personally happy.

#p5 #takuto maruki #sumire yoshizawa #persona 5 royal #p5r #p5r spoilers #tw suicide #cw suicide #sera posts

[tonystarktogo]

PLEASE continue As Subtle As Cognitive Recalibration. I’m missing 2012 avengers with 2023 shenanigans so bad

Natasha would like to say that she notices something is off immediately—and if anyone asks that is what she will claim and good luck trying to prove otherwise—but the truth is it’s not until a good five minutes after Clint has woken up, heavily concussed and beat up but himself, in the back of their not-quite-stolen getaway car that she realizes it.

Which is a solid two hours after Stark catches on. Stark.

Granted, Natasha has had other things on her mind. Like the alien capable of mind-control getting a hold of the one person she might actually one day admit to count as a real friend without lying, should the stars align and the confession suit her purpose. Or the invading army that followed on said alien’s heels.

But that is no excuse to discard the many, many inconsistencies she’s observed but ignored or brushed off instead of questioned like her instincts have insisted with increasing alarm ever since she has watched Rogers and Banner hover over Stark like he might disappear the second they take their eyes off of him.

There’d been speculation in Rogers file that he might be positively inclined towards Stark on the grounds of his familiarity with Howard Stark but even if SHIELD’s attempt to discourage a connection with such a volatile asset had failed that still wouldn’t explain the depth of Roger’s emotional reaction to Stark.

Don’t even get her started on Banner.

Stark stands for everything Bruce Banner has done his best to avoid since he got his monstrous green personality addition. The way he has actively sought Tony Stark at his most sarcastic out makes no sense whatsoever. Nor does the tension between Banner and Rogers, that screams of frustration born out of long-held disagreements stretched out over years, not a twenty minutes long acquaintance.

And all that doesn’t touch on the fact that the Asgardian crown prince Thor has treated all of them—Stark and Natasha included—like long lost friends.

Not just in the way he’s greeted Stark with an actual hug either. Big, boisterous statements are easier to fake, though what aim such a pretense would serve Natasha doesn’t know, but it’s the little things that made her pause, almost succeeded in distracting her from her primary goal of getting Clint back.

The loaded glances. The unfinished sentences that were understood nonetheless. They way they stepped into formation reflexively the moment the explosion shook the helicarrier, like they knew where everyone else would stand. Like they’d been in that position before.

She set it aside because she needed to focus on Clint. So that is what she did.

Natasha doesn’t regret that because Clint needed her and now he’s alright. Bloodied and fucked-up but himself.

But she does regret letting all those hints go, just a little, because Clint may be himself but it only takes her five minutes in his company to know for sure that he’s not the same.

He tackles her in a hug that almost gets them killed the moment he regains consciousness—which is actually the most in-character thing she has seen him do so far—but he doesn’t tap their agreed upon all-clear signal out against her shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or tense when he catches sight of Loki—and yeah, the guy might be a victim too, but how would Clint know that? And even if he does, that still doesn’t mean no reaction to his presence at all.

Most damning though is that moment in Stark’s elevator, just before the doors open and they step out onto the roof and it’s a lightening quick motion someone else might have missed but Natasha is watching for it and she knows exactly what she’s seeing. Mere seconds before stepping into a potentially life-threatening situation, Clint doesn’t look to her. Instead his gaze flicks to Rogers, to Banner, to Thor, and he takes his cue from them.

He’s subtle about it and he does clock her and Stark too, as is only expected, but that first reflex doesn’t lie.

So while it might have taken Natasha longer to catch on than she’d prefer, she knows. The question now is what she’s going to do with that knowledge.

Natasha leans back in her seat, a position that reinforces the relaxed air she’s been so carefully feigning ever since they’ve stepped into this slightly run-down local restaurant whose staff has been handling their unexpected and strange customers surprisingly well so far, lets her gaze roam over their curious group—takes in the way Thor pushes more food onto Loki’s plate every time their wannabe conqueror finishes, how Clint keeps shooting looks at her, not so much like he’s trying to communicate and more like he’s checking if she’s still there, while Rogers and Banner throw unexpectedly cutting barbs at each other when they aren’t trying to pull Stark into a conversation—and does what she does best: she plots.

Let's be real, nothing good can come from this.

#ReRe answers #ReRe writes #oops my hand slipped #MCU #fic #as subtle as cognitive recalibration #probably not what you had in mind anon #but here have some natascha #natasha romanoff #anon

[rozaceous]

ands: the new year's debacle

Wayne Enterprises & Subsidiaries NYE Event, where Director Yang is in attendance with a tall, gorgeous, and mysterious Plus One. They are both seen cheerfully making conversation with Chief Fox, much to the bafflement of the combined office betting pools.

(aka: post bruce and co resolving the UST over the holidays, it's Wayne E's holiday party and he finds out that vivienne and rosalyn know each other, and know each other well. ft: kevin the mortified and unsuspecting office worker.)

“I’m not—” Kevin feels his heels slipping as both Patricia and Claire pretend to double-over with laughter, arms hooked around his as a pretense to frogmarch him towards the trio at the large window of the event space.

“The General likes you best,” Henry says in that obnoxious way where he thinks he’s contributing to the discussion, but it’s just hot air.

“Marvin the Martian’s her favorite,” he refutes.

Simon gives a hard stare over at their wayward co-worker and they all follow his gaze. Marvin “the Martian” is either trying to describe how superconductors work or the mechanics of the wobbling gelatin dessert in his hands to his plus one. Poor woman looks completely lost, as if she’s been beamed to another planet.

“She thinks his nickname is funny, but she thinks you’re actually funny,” Johanna explains with a tone of talking down to a toddler.

Another voice joins their conversation. “Maybe you can go? Female-female solidarity?” He was thinking it, and Michael is the one to say it out loud. He comes up behind Simon, nodding greetings and holding hors d'oeuvres.

Johanna gives him a scornful once-over. She doesn’t move any closer despite the haughty attitude—she’s just as terrified of their boss as the rest of them are.

Kevin continues to struggle to no avail. He hisses, “Ladies, please!”

They’re slowly but steadily inching closer towards doom. Kevin’s never been a proponent of more than a light jog every two days, but the way Henry looks pityingly at him makes him reconsider stopping by the top-of-the-line gym facilities that all WayneTech employees get access to. Unfortunately, it means he’d have to account for running into trouble outside of business hours, as well.

Speaking of trouble—

“Director Yang!” Patricia gives off a bubbly laugh—the only natural blonde on their floor and she leans hard into it. Kevin would buy in, too, if he hasn’t seen how she gave that Enterprise Division asshole Asher Mulland the run-around. He was none the wiser, either; too busy dealing with Director Yang reaming him for wasting everyone’s time when his side pushed for ‘tighter integration’ in the first place.

“Patricia, off-hours,” Director Yang says with a small raise of her champagne flute. “I see you and Claire are…” The way she trails off that sentence while looking askance at him makes Kevin want his every molecules to drop down to absolute zero, no motion whatsoever.

If he doesn’t move, she can’t see him, right?

“Kevin’s more fun than the rest of the boys’ club you’re running, Vivienne.” Claire is both purposefully casual and careful with how she says Director Yang’s name. The little curl of the draconian woman’s lips—blood red lacquer and a hint of teeth—at that mockery seems to be a good sign (if an unnerving sight all the same), as the rest of the women in their circle start to laugh.

“We came over because we had to know who you’re wearing?” Patricia ends her statement with a questioning lilt.

“Hervé Léger,” she answers easily, and the striking brunette next to her leans close to clink their flutes together with a laugh. “Nothing wrong with a bit of excitement to greet the new year,” Director Yang says with a warm expression that actually reaches her eyes, curving them into crescents.

“As if you need an excuse to buy more clothes or shoes,” the brunette teases with a winsome smile, and all that prompts is a small flicker of an eye roll before Director Yang leans into her side.

“Where would she be without her shoes?” Chief Fox adds on dryly. “They’ve been making a statement since her undergraduate showcase. The terror of her division, too, if the scuttlebutt’s to be believed.”

“The terror of her calves, more like,” Statuesque Brunette jumps back in.

“But you have to admit they look amazing.” Director Yang’s tone takes on an unrecognizable quality.

Kevin has to admit nothing. He’s not looking at how his boss is in a dress that shows off her arms and shoulders and back and legs, and even if he were, his brain would do him the courtesy of applying a pixelated modesty filter over things no human was meant to perceive.

She looks over at them as if on cue and his mind goes blank with momentary terror. Maybe she can read minds. Maybe Claire says something agreeable or whatever, and Patricia nods along, but he can’t process the words.

It’s bizarre and hair-raising. She’s never gone out of her way to make it known, but within the first two years of working at WayneTech it was factual that Vivienne Yang was a hardass at best and a tyrant at worst. The fact that she’s rarely wrong and backed up all but officially by the CTO of WayneTech and acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises Lucius Fox means that she has leeway to be as despotic as she pleases. It’s true that one would have to monumentally cause something to go FUBAR for her to turn her attention on them, but those with survival instincts cringe at the sound of ‘click-clack-click-clack’ heels marching directly towards their desk.

The horsemen of the apocalypse in his dreams wore fitted suit jackets and pussy-bow blouses, and were all the more terrifying for it.

Hires that didn’t know better and got cocky—they were usually the type to run their mouths, fuck up anyways, and got made examples out of. It’d be better if she yelled, but she would coldly and without pause tear into every bit of their professional and technical integrity until there was nothing left. If it were Kevin, he wouldn’t even dare apply to a different job elsewhere, non-compete clauses notwithstanding.

When he gains awareness of the conversation again, it’s at the mention of his name.

“—must be Kevin.” Statuesque Brunette smiles over at him, with the most perfectly manicured and shaped hand reaching out for a greeting. She’s taller than him, too. “Vi’s told me a lot about you. I’m Rosalyn.”

“I—ah—” And thank god he automatically reaches over to shake her hand, even as he stutters. To his horror, Patricia and Claire are nowhere to be seen. He’s on his own. “All good things, I hope? We’re, well…’the nail that sticks out gets the hammer,’ as they say around here.” He tries for a joke to break the tension.

“You stick out in a good way,” Rosalyn says warmly, reassuringly, except it makes him that much more afraid. “Notable work, great attitude.”

Director Yang doesn’t point out anything unless it’s an egregious error. It’s either ‘good, proceed,’ ‘alright, I see,’ or the dreaded ‘hm.’ And then it all goes downhill from there.

“You’re the division’s foremost expert on frogs, right?” Rosalyn brings up, her straight, ivory teeth flashing in a show of mirth. She tucks shiny, flawlessly wavy hair behind an ear.

“Toads, actually,” comes out of his mouth before he can process the fact that Director Yang has 1) seen his work desktop background, and 2) told her plus one about it.

“Toads, Ros,” Director Yang concurs and takes a sip of champagne. “There’s a difference.”

He must be in a lucid nightmare right now, because Chief Fox nods thoughtfully and Rosalyn hums before asking, “So, what is the difference?”

His parents were right; he should have gone to church more and played less in the swamp, because a toad-shaped demon takes possession of him to rattle on about the differences and he can’t stop himself. The fact that Director Yang and Chief Fox hold a little side conversation but still have the wherewithal to nod along, even adding in little factoids of their own to Rosalyn’s follow-up questions, traps him in this never-ending psychotic break.

“—and Michael’s finally here to complete the duo act,” Director Yang drawls when Kevin has a pause. “I was wondering how long you two could bear to be separated.”

“These two submitted the winning proposal for the small-sat bid, yes?” Chief Fox turns an appraising look towards them. “Good work.”

“And lively all-hands meetings, from what I hear,” Rosalyn comments wryly.

Cold sweat drips down his back, and Michael’s not doing any better now that he’s also in their sights. His smile freezes in a way that starts to look like a grimace.

“So, how were the holidays?” Director Yang brings everything back to polite, standard conversation. “I assume everyone’s hard-fought-for and well-deserved PTO was spent wisely?”

“That does include you, too, Vi,” Chief Fox says.

Rosalyn chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry about that—she was forced to take it easy because—”

Kevin thinks he might prefer the regular work week interactions—at least he has those rules of engagement memorized. Here, he feels like a bug on display in front of the two most terrifying individuals at the company and a cheerfully intimidating plus one; the mood is awkward and Michael’s expression shows he clearly regrets coming over to bail him out.

---

Half an hour later, Kevin and Michael have made a partial escape and are lingering to the side of the room’s large window and attempting to look like they’re making conversation instead of standing awkwardly close to the curtains and eavesdropping as Rosalyn is now regaling Chief Fox with the details of a recent house tour she and Director Yang had taken. She has him honest-to-god chuckling. It’s just not right.

Kevin and Michael are still sharing bulging eye contact at the revelation of Director Yang getting a house with anybody, much less her apparent girlfriend(?) —Chief Fox seems to handle this information with more grace, but then he actually seems to like Director Yang—when Rosalyn is interrupted by the man of the perpetual hour.

“—wiring done by someone who’s idea of electricity hasn’t gained any sophistication past flying a kite in a storm based on the way the bathroom light sparked when I turned it on—”

“Of course I’d find you with the smartest, most beautiful women in the room, Lucius,” says Bruce Wayne, a half-emptied glass of champagne in hand as he smoothly sidles his way into their conversation. He and Chief Fox exchange a brief handshake and inquiry-answer about Chief Fox’s wife, who had other obligations.

And then—

“Hi, Bruce.” Rosalyn leans in to hug Mr Wayne and kiss his cheek. Kevin makes a choking noise and Michael elbows him to make him be quiet, transfixed by the way the very fabric of the universe is unraveling in front of them. “I was wondering if I’d get to see you this evening.”

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve been here that much sooner, Rosalyn,” Mr Wayne returns. He pecks her cheek back and releases her, hand trailing her midback as he pulls away. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“I’m Vivienne’s plus one.”

“Bruce,” greets Director Yang with a smile that for once has settled on something that doesn’t look like she’s considering evisceration. Her handshake appears similarly nonviolent; she even goes so far as to add a second hand on top. Kevin and Michael glance quickly at one another, neither sure if it’s a play for dominance or an uncharacteristic but genuine expression of warmth. “Happy New Year’s.”

Mr Wayne reclaims his hand, head tilted just slightly, but still looking happy as a clam, if a little confused. “Happy New Year’s, Vivienne. I didn’t realize the two of you had gotten on so well! Glad it was a worthwhile referral, then.”

“Very worthwhile,” Rosalyn agrees. “I’m sure I must’ve thanked you for the introduction back then, but I’m happy to reiterate it.”

“Of course, of course.” And Mr Wayne’s eyes are flicking between Rosalyn and Director Yang, apparently taking in the lack of distance required for him to do so. Director Yang’s smile, meanwhile, evolves into more of a smirk. Kevin shivers as he weathers a flashback to when Director Yang had given Director Schroeder enough rope to hang himself with and watched him do so while in an inter-department meeting.

Kevin clamps a hand onto his companion-in-misery’s elbow, and Michael doesn’t even flinch when his fingers dig in through the fabric of the suit jacket, too busy staring.

“Mr Wayne introduced them?” Kevin asks in a frantic whisper. Why would Mr Wayne even know Rosalyn? Why did he know Rosalyn first?

And Michael frantically whispers back with the horrible speculation of, “I think Director Yang stole Mr Wayne’s girl out from under him.”

Kevin struggles to find evidence to argue against that fearsome proposition. The closest that he can come up with is that Rosalyn isn’t the wafer-thin type that Mr Wayne’s been seen with in the past. Regardless, she (and Director Yang, in fact) both have the polish of Mr Wayne’s supermodel pursuits, somehow—every woman in attendance is dolled up and dressed to impress, but there was an ineffable and insurmountable difference between them and the two women in front of him.

He thinks it’s dark magic, personally. Blood of the innocents, perhaps.

“Rosalyn was just telling me about an ill-fated house tour their real estate agent gave last week,” Chief Fox segues. Whereas Director Yang is terrifying like a guided missile strike aimed at your desk, Chief Fox is worse in the way of finding assassins invading your home in the dead of night; Kevin can never get a read on him. Is this social grace? Or adding fuel to the fire?

“The house was Murphy’s Law in residential form.” Rosalyn takes her cue masterfully. “It was almost comical, though poor Sharon was nearly in tears when a door literally swung off its hinges at the end.”

Mr Wayne blinks and gives a little laugh. “You didn’t mention you were house-hunting, Ros! I’d be happy to set you up with my agent.”

“We found a place in Fashion last week,” demurs Director Yang, eyes sharp though the rest of her expression is pleasant.

Kevin’s pretty sure the way Mr Wayne is showing his teeth now is more about holding in a scream than smiling. He can completely commiserate with the feeling.

“Finally, it’s been months,” agrees Rosalyn, apparently impervious to the tension Kevin is currently absorbing into his nervous system. He’s attempting to expel it, and Michael is taking the brunt. His elbow is probably going to have bruises. “Needs some work, but it’s gorgeous and has—what was it Sharon said?”

Director Yang answers, “Good bones.”

Rosalyn nods, satisfied. “Weirdest turn of phrase. It has a sturdy foundation, anyway. And doesn’t seem like it’s been shot up by the mob recently, at least, which is more than one of the houses we looked at can say.”

“Some poorly plastered-over bullet holes in the foyer,” Director Yang says with an amused raise of an eyebrow. “Semi-automatic, gives it character.”

Rosalyn’s cheer contrasts with her next words: “Though no visible bloodstains in that one! That was the house we looked at on Irving and Park—”

“Terrible HVAC, too—”

“It’s been quite the adventure, in any case,” Rosalyn concludes. “But I suppose that’s house hunting in Gotham for you. We’re only waiting on the home inspection now that the holidays are wrapping up, but that should go fine, and then it’s just closing. We’re hoping to move in in February.”

“Fingers crossed.” Director Yang takes a drink from her glass, glancing fondly up at Rosalyn from the side of her eyes.

Fondly. Kevin is going to combust, especially when Rosalyn nudges into Director Yang’s shoulder.

“Well, that’s—I’m glad you’ve found a place,” says Mr Wayne, sounding a little faint, and looking like the champagne has hit him with a two-by-four instead of BAC.

“Thanks, Bruce.” Rosalyn beams, her cheeks gone a little pink.

“How long have you and Vi known each other, Rosalyn?” Chief Fox asks. “She’s so tight-lipped about her personal life, I’m afraid it’s a mystery.”

“Oh! That’s—” she flashes a quick look at Director Yang “—a little under a year?”

“Eight months,” says Director Yang.

Rosalyn clears her throat, pinking a little more, but Chief Fox just makes a noise of sudden comprehension.

“Ah, so it’s you we have to thank for the office’s standing desk trend, then.” He raises his glass at Rosalyn, eyes crinkled.

“Trend?”

“It caught on after Director Yang got hers and everyone started making a fuss about her timers for changing desk positions.”

“I—well—yes, I suppose that was me, then. I didn’t realize it’d made a fuss, though. Vi, you didn’t say!”

Kevin and Michael share yet another aghast look, and Kevin is rapidly revising his ranking on who present is scariest, Rosalyn now taking the top slot. Anyone who can get Director Yang to do their bidding and make Chief Fox laugh and who somehow knows Bruce Wayne well enough to be on a first-name basis deserves the gold medal.

Rosalyn takes a sip of champagne, seemingly a little flustered, and her bright lipstick doesn’t even leave a mark on the glass. Just in case Kevin needed more evidence of her uncanny, eldritch powers.

---

Nothing as gauche as a shouting match, dramatic declarations, or running off into the night happens as the New Year’s ball drops.

Instead, the attendees are all witnesses to various anomalies: the domesticity of Rosalyn and Director Yang fetching drinks and hors d’oeuvres for each other, giggle fits from the women and a round of full-bellied laughter from Chief Fox, and glassy-eyed looks cast over the edges of a speedily replenished series of champagne flutes by Mr Wayne as he makes his social rounds. Whether the expression was caused by sentiment, alcohol, or pure bewilderment was the point of contention fueling a new betting pool.

The cherry on top is when Rosalyn, herself some glasses in, starts loudly care-taking Director Yang.

“—I can see the goosebumps, Vi!” she chastises, starting to shrug off the jacket of her fuchsia pantsuit. Kevin is gratified that Henry also chokes at the arm muscle and cleavage displayed by the now-visible camisole, the same shiny fuchsia fabric as the suit.

“My coat’s in the car, I’ll be fine,” Director Yang—pouts?!

“Yes, it’s doing you so much good in the car.” Rosalyn manhandles Director Yang into putting on the jacket over her silvery-gray dress while Director Yang sulkily submits, but Rosalyn ends with an affectionate kiss on the cheek that has Claire gasping and clutching onto Patricia, making a high-pitched coo.

“Mr Fox, I think we should take this as our cue to exit for the evening,” says Rosalyn, arm lingering around Director Yang’s shoulders.

Director Yang gives a sharp, two-fingered jab to Rosalyn’s ribs, making the woman let out an “Eep!”

“Lucius, please, Rosalyn,” Chief Fox protests, and Michael’s jaw drops at his words. Chief Fox’s eyes are sparkling at the scene in front of him, though Johanna has been keeping the tally on everyone, and he’s had five glasses by now according to her. “And of course. I’ll be in touch with Vi about Tanya and I having the two of you over for dinner once things settle down on the housing front.”

Rosalyn seems to inflate with the force of her happiness at the prospect. “Absolutely, I’d love to meet her! Luke and Tam, too, now that I’ve heard so much!”

“Little Luke’s a riot,” Director Yang says dryly. “You should grill him on how he thinks shoulders work.”

“Those sound like fighting words.” Rosalyn nods, completely serious, though not losing the sense of good humor she’s kept throughout the night. She and Chief Fox shake hands and exchange genial goodbyes, while Director Yang detaches herself from her date long enough to give the man a two-armed hug. Rosalyn then returns her arm to Director Yang’s shoulders, steering her towards the valet service at the exit.

With the intimate proximity and rhythmic complexity of tango dancers, ‘clickety-clack-click-clackety’ and away the devil saunters with her consort.

The office pool pivots back to watching Chief Fox when, in the aftermath, he approaches Mr Wayne—who had watched the two women leave with his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly—and they share a few words before Chief Fox gives him a clap on the back that looks suspiciously conciliatory.

Johanna assesses her nearly empty flute of champagne. “I need something harder.”

Kevin just wants Mr Wayne’s two-by-four from earlier in the evening, hoping that traumatic brain injury will still be less traumatic than everything he’s been forced to witness tonight.

#verm's and my take: knowing modern makeup is going to give you an edge over typical 90s fashion #and if you're dressing to the nines it's that little bit extra #and otherwise neither of them fits the era's beauty standards #a number of different selves #folie a deux #forgot to add explicitly that we cowrote this over the week 😅 #my brain doesn't like functioning sorry

[culling]

What's a popular fandom interpretation of your muse that you tend to dislike the most?

well! here’s a question that resonates deeply with me because i am, tragically, a hater and a hipster. though in all seriousness, i’m rather used to forming my own opinions about my chosen muses without any fandom influence -- a perk i gained from being in relatively barren fandoms most of my life, as well as being rather loose with what’s deemed as morally upright or morally bad, if that makes sense? like, i love my characters being heavily flawed, and i don’t care for debating on the ethics of a fictional world either. especially for a show like hazbin! these characters are in hell, and even if they didn’t start out too bad, being in such a horrific environment for far too long is bound to change anyone for the worst … so discussions like, ‘who’s the bad guy in the vox and alastor fallout?’ or ‘but ( character name ) is totally a good person guys, i mean murdering & exploiting others isn’t as bad as ( other character name )’s crimes!’ do not interest me in the slightest, usually. i find it redundant! but this more chill attitude towards moral purity does give me the benefit of not leaning too hard in either direction, when it comes to good verus evil, and this fandom is full of people who either woobify characters to hell and back or villainize them an almost humorous amount, so! with that all out of the way, let me see!

there are a lot of alastor interpretations that i don’t like / don’t see -- obviously, people are allowed to do what they want! i’m all about creative freedom, and for all of my alastor mutuals who might read this, this is not about your portrayals whatsoever! but for starters, i don’t think alastor’s good at manipulation, nor that he’s a master manipulator! which is one of the most popular fandom takes out there in regards to him?? to be blunt, the deception on his end is fickle and rather poor : not once does he try to pretend to have the hotel’s best interests at heart ( aka his whole ‘i’m here to see the hotel fail’ spiel ) and he doesn’t actively engage with the guests or charlie unless it openly serves him in some way. he is soooo transparent! people give him way too much credit when it comes to this ability, and i think people are misunderstanding the difference between alastor obviously having another motive versus him actively working towards said motive through lies and mind games.

and i know people bring up the scene in ep7 to allude to his manipulative tactics but … that was nothing short of a poor & desperate attempt on al’s end to secure something he’s been vying for this entire time, yet didn’t actually possess the skills / bonds to achieve. charlie immediately clocks his intent! she knew he wanted to make a deal with her from the pilot ( he had, again, not tried hiding this from her ) , and while she probably assumed he’d given up on that endeavor, she quickly grows disappointed in him during that scene -- she is under no pretense that this deal will lead to a good thing, or that alastor isn’t actively using her here, like, she clocked him the second he offered the deal lol. idk! i just don’t believe he’s good at this : alastor, to me, perfectly encapsulates an animal stuck in a trap trying to gnaw his own leg off so that he may escape. he’s desperate, he’s at the end of his rope, he’s in no mindset to be thinking clearly enough to formulate these long term plans or execute them! so i believe calling him a master manipulator is a stretch haha. if he’s supposed to be one then man he sucks at it ngl!!! kinda embarrassing for him, really.

i also don’t adhere to the belief that alastor hates men on principle either! his tolerance for men is significantly shorter compared to women, yes, but most of the guys in the show do earn his ire in some way -- even if his reasons are petty or wrong. vox is his literal enemy and was slandering his name across all of the pride ring, so of course alastor ( someone who’s prideful and reasonably cares about his reputation ) retaliates and responds cruelly, which isn’t even touching upon their scorned history! sir pentious was mostly harmless, true, but he’s been trying to kill alastor for years and was vox’s little spy as well … alastor has no reason to care for nor trust him at first, much less treat him well when he’s attacked the hotel twice just to get to him! lucifer is not only a rumored deadbeat, but is more powerful than alastor and was just as rude to him initially! their beef is evenly matched. frankly husker is the only soul he treats rather unfairly & extremely, though even that level of reaction has a clear reason for existing! like, i’m tired of people acting like it’s purely a gender thing, when the reasons for these reactions are clearly based on other reasons than just. oh. this is a man.

we see that al has no qualms treating vaggie with complete disrespect just because he dislikes her, to the point of slapping her ass in the pilot ( a very mannish thing to do, mind you! ) , so this isn’t just about man hatred to me. and don't get me wrong, i think alastor still does have issues with gender but it shows itself more in the way he views the fairer sex as ... the fairer sex? he thinks women are superior, is softer on them based on instinct, and probably got along with women only before hell. like, i do believe he mostly killed men ... maybe a woman here or there ( since i think, as his name suggests, his serial killing spree was about revenge and vengeance and his skewed views of right and wrong! ) but i think hell changed that, or at least humbled him somewhat because now everyone around him is unabashedly awful and bad. idk if that makes sense but! i feel like it's a world view that's faded mostly, and what really remains is an urge to protect girls from men ... yes he'll get along with girls easier but he won't be aggressive to a man just because of that, usually.

anyway! yeah! those are just some i could think of off the top of my head that were juicy enough to write out. hope this was enjoyable <3

#ooc. #another big one for me is how people treat the radiostatic fallout but i talk about that ALL the time so #i won’t get into it here <33 have some takes you haven’t heard from me before!!! #i could word these so much more elegantly but frankly im fatigued as fuck so i do. not have the energy to waste #i promise i could talk about these more !! sometime !!! #however just take the bare bones for now xoxo #( and yes im aware vivzie was the one who said al loathes men and thinks lowly of them — however! #i do not care for her word lol. from what ive seen FROM the show he does not show a man hating bias #he’s just less lenient with them / struggles to get along with them which. is different! #anyway!! thanks sm for the ask ) #tw long post

[yeonban]

One thing I've been thinking about almost constantly since the release of the game is how DH subconsciously dislikes the Masked Fools and his instincts generally tell him who is one even when they're upholding the pretenses that they aren't. His own personal experiences with them until the current point in the game have been atrocious, and frankly speaking he will NEVER trust any of them - but he is willing to work alongside them if need be, and won't stop his friends from doing so either. All a Masked Fool will be able to see from his side is that he doesn't trust them whatsoever and that he is ready to end their lives the second they try to pull a fast one on him or his friends, nothing more nor less than that.

The reason for this? His character stories. It wasn't mentioned outright, but we do know that after leaving the Luofu he eventually found himself on a ship full of masked people who tried to steal his memories and who forced him to listen to mad ramblings as some sort of mental torture. Initially I thought it could be a different group than the Masked Fools, but Sampo basically showed us that it wasn't. How? He nicknamed Dan Heng "cold dragon young" on Belobog, an allusion to DH's vidyadhara roots ('dragon') as well as his recent rebirth ('young'). Now, if this was the first time they'd met (which is possible since DH didn't recognize him), then how could Sampo know about him unless through other Masked Fools, who we learned have a habit of "televising" their ventures to the others at the Tavern? I also took into consideration that maybe a Masked Fool was on the Luofu during DH's banishment walk, but we have to remember it was AFTER he left the Luofu that he changed his appearance into the one we know now, so I wager only the masked people from that ship could've noticed DH is a vidyadhara (possibly even the part about him being DF's reincarnation) during their attempt at stealing his memories.

Besides, although it's a running gag that no one trusts Sampo, no one thus far has come as close to jeopardizing his life as DH did when he thrust his spear in the snow at Sampo on their first meeting. We all know that DH is never one to use violence if it can be avoided (that's a big chunk of his voicelines too), so why would he choose to resort to violence right after meeting Sampo, when he didn't even know his name? Because of his traumatic experiences with the Masked Fools prior to his joining the Express.

#muse: dan heng. #* dan heng. / development. #DH stares at me intently whenever I add a Masked Fool related muse and I have to avert my gaze HADUISHJ Aha... Nikolai... I'm so sorry DH #I've been questioning why DH resorted to violence in .2s after meeting Sampo for like 10 months now and it kept evading me #but a few days ago I looked through his voicelines again & now that we've met some other Masked Fools too (Sparkle being a major one) #I suddenly realized Why. He's still so <3 for going along w them despite his personal experiences w their colleagues tho. #DH on Belobog after having been led to the underground ring by Sampo: (unimpressed. instinctively figured that would happen)